


Memento Mori

by starafleur



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sherlock's Grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starafleur/pseuds/starafleur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doubted the truth of life beyond death; if there was he wanted no part of it. But there was no need for gods if they had each other... He hadn’t known they were to be each other’s final resting place. He hadn’t known Jim was willing to play martyr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

Sherlock visits his grave sometimes.

Occasionally, after wearing the streets of London once more with the sheer force of imposition and an interminable hunger that gnaws and corrodes the pavement, the buildings; after stripping another cadaver of information and leaving it to rot, even after the evanescent thrill of the chase that whips through the wind and shimmers before him like a beacon fades away - Sherlock Holmes pauses. Takes the long way home. Night is falling, and there is no one to tell him to stay away now, to warn him, although to be fair it wouldn’t have made much difference if there was. _  
_

He has come to realize that there is only so long one can predate hidden alleyways and lurk in the shadows before he is forced to admit that he is living in an endless purgatory. He is a tiger trapped in a cage, catching rabbits with the patient inevitability of a narrative - the exposition, the conflict, the chase and climax…

"The end."

It sounds far more cruel said aloud, without the aid of a nicotone patch or a case pressing the thought against the back of his mind, but Sherlock supposes that was rather the point. He and Moriarty had drawn up the rules of play in chalk silhouettes on pavement, in the allegories they constructed together and then watched tumble down. There was a cunning sort of sentimentality in the little games they played, one that permeated Sherlock’s mind and tangled itself in his thoughts so thoroughly that, of course, by the time he had caught it, it was far too late. Upon reflection - and Sherlock certainly had time for that - it was something they had done together. If John was a house built to shield him from himself, his relationship with Jim was a _cathedral_ , gilded with mutuality glimmering like gold, the ceiling adorned with the crime scenes they had painted together, the rafters harboring their secrets.

Sherlock doubted the truth of life beyond death; if there was he wanted no part of it. But there was no need for gods if they had each other, they were those prayers whispered late at night in the hushed echo of the confessional, each exhumed the other as if they were immortal and could continue burning forever, a defiant light in the enveloping cosmic dark. He hadn’t known they were to be each other’s final resting place. He hadn’t known Jim was willing to play martyr.

No, together isn’t a question, never truly was, simply a thought inconceivable, inperceivable, to anyone else but the two of them. But _oh_ , for the most fleeting of seconds they _knew_ _._ Sherlock had come prepared for the game to go on endlessly, had not expected for the anticipated consumation to come as a perhaps hand ripped from his forever. The consulting detective - _"only one in the world"_ \- is agitated, shifting from foot to foot. What he needs is a high, but just this once he cannot shake the feeling that he has commited a grievous offense not so easily remedied by a needle. Sherlock is viciously unsentimental about himself. He now understands that each brick of their cathedral was inscribed with _memento mori_ while his back was turned, that nothing is permanent. Except for one thing. The sanctity to their interactions needs to remain, or else he will be the loose thread, the outlier. He has a promise to keep.

"I suppose you aren’t surprised, are you? You knew how this would end."

Silence is his response. The detective falters for a moment and then continues.

"If you were here… although I sincerely refrain from putting anything past you, even now you are not lacking the - maybe I would be able to tell you this in person. Certainly this is long overdue. I would like you to know that… I am sorry. You believed in me, and I failed you. I deliberately chose to overlook certain signs of emotional attachment because I feared those I exhibited in response. I intended to ignore them until I was better able to assess them at length, and deliver an appropriate response. What I mean to say is - I did not anticipate your death wish, and…" Sherlock’s voice cracked imperceptibly and his throat suddenly felt very thick. "I made a very grave mistake, I missed it, all of it. Nothing could or will ever compare to what you were able to provide me with. I was stagnation, and no one was even _near_ adequate until youfound me and surpassed every standard I thought I knew to be true and more. As time went on, I… things stopped connecting as cleanly. Obviously you knew that I kept track of your crimes on the wall of my flat, I know you did, but as time went on, the lines lost their meaning… and I _knew_ it was sentiment. There was nothing else it could have _been,_ and the implications were devastating. I suppose the incident with The Woman was unintentional, but from that point on I deluded myself. I saw the effect it had on her - as I have it she is now living in the United States, god knows what she’s been doing since. At one point John Watson thought my prime motivation for seeking you out was fear. He was partially correct, fear of myself would be more apt, but the point is that I wanted you to be there. I broke all of my own rules for you, and in the final days I believed that I was losing track of you, I thought you were leaving me behind. I was inept but for sentiment -“

Sherlock took a shuddering inhale. “I would just like to express that I… cared for you more deeply than you will ever know. I’m sure you would like to know that I am having trouble finding the motivation to continue even now. My mind would have it that you are alive and well, but I were to let myself believe this I will have truly lost all sense of self-control. My life will be quite empty without you, and I should hope that I will meet you again sooner rather than later.”

Sherlock trailed off, and touched the headstone engraved _Sherlock Holmes._ Only he knew what body lay decomposing underneath it. Mycroft was not the only one capable of securing connections. As he began to stroll away, he paused for a moment as if making a decision, and called back over his shoulder.

"Thank you."

The silence that greeted him this time felt somewhat cooler, and an east wind stung Sherlock’s cheeks as he composed himself and faded back into the shadows of twilight.


End file.
